A Lady of Cathay
by NoNessa
Summary: A strange young woman returned from China is the only witness to a Musketeer's death. She is the bearer of dark secrets and a scandal waiting to happen. D'Artagnan and the three Musketeers are pulled into the thick of it. Will they join her in the fight for her life? My own Musketeers "episode", with a quirky OC keeping the boys on their toes.
1. A Green Cloak

**Synopsis:** A strange young woman returned from China is the only witness to a Musketeer's death. She is the bearer of dark secrets and a scandal waiting to happen. D'Artagnan and the three Musketeers are pulled into the thick of it. Will they join her in the fight for her life?  
My own Musketeers "episode", with a quirky OC keeping the boys on their toes.

**Series:** 1 (So excited there might be a second one…)

**Rating:** PG-13 / M. There is some strong language, fighting, and maybe dying, involved.

**Characters:** Everyone is in it and accounted for. Of our four heroes, Porthos gets to say a little more. The cardinal is also very important and, of course, there is Désirée, my OC, mixing things up. ;)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any of the series' characters. The moral rights to them belong to the BBC and Monsieur Dumas. There is no copyright infringement intended. But I do own my original character. If you are interested in using her in any way, please ask me first.

**Warnings:** This is my first Musketeers fan fiction and the first story I have written in over 7 years. In the meanwhile I have worked on role-playing and original writing. So I am not all rusty. But please, please be gentle with me. ;) Thank you.

Secondly, I know OCs are not everyone's cup of tea. But here is hoping Mademoiselle will not get on your nerves too much…. And now, on to the story: Enjoy. :)

1. A Green Cloak

Others needed silks to feel pretty. She only needed her sword. The long, slender Chinese blade rested in its golden scabbard against her back, well hidden from sight. It was not a lady's plaything. But neither were the oversized woolen cloak, or the wide-brimmed hat. She had taken them off a dead horseman near Le Havre. It had been a lucky coincidence. The clothes she had brought back from Cathay were simply not warm enough for the rotten French weather.

And the dead man's things had given her safety. For a lone rider in the woods, it was best not to look like a woman. The same held true for the streets of Paris. Wearily, almost silent her booted feet slid across the grimy cobblestones, nearing her destination.

She had given away the horse to move more freely, to run away when there was danger. More than any mysterious Eastern bazaar, this cold, dank city frightened her. In every step, dread mingled with sheer repulsion. But it did not matter now; she was almost there.

Or not.

"You." The voice came from close behind. It was a male voice, crisp and authoritarian.

She stayed where she was, not moving a single muscle. Perhaps it was not addressing her.

"Where did you get that cloak?" the voice demanded with a sharp undertone.

So much for that. Inwardly, she swore. The speaker had not held her up to discuss fashion. This meant trouble. In a flash, her body broke into a run.

As she moved, her eyes darted into every direction, catching sight of objects and people careening by.

Suddenly, a wheelbarrow appeared in front of her. It blocked her path, too close to evade. Out of options, she jumped. Too short. When her feet touched down inside the cart, the surface underneath rolled away. Apples. Her feet scrambled forward. Somehow she kicked free. Apples flew into all directions as she landed in the street.

Startled, she looked around. She did not see anyone in pursuit. But panic drove her on, through the passing crowd. She felt resistance as she pushed past people, snaking her way towards the next side alley.

There she took a sharp turn, her flank scraping past a coarse brick wall. She dove into the shadows of an alleyway. There she stopped. Her breath came in quivering flutters. The journey to France had been taxing enough. And now this... She touched her newly bruised side, gritting her teeth. It hurt. But at least her pursuer was out of sight.

She closed her eyes, listening to the faraway noise of the street. There was nothing unusual, no commotion. Then, suddenly there was a nearly soundless swish, right behind her.

Him again. Her senses screamed in alarm. Out of reflex she went down into a defensive stance. She never got there. At once, something hard pressed against the small of her back, snagging at her overcoat. It felt like the tip of a dagger.

"I shall ask again, boy: How did you come by this cloak?" The stranger was not letting off. His tone was even more irate now.

He was not going to stab her, yet. If she drew her sword now, that would change. She had to surrender, unless...

Suddenly, she had an idea. A distraction. It would buy her two seconds. With a quick snip of her fingers she flicked her hat into the air. In the same motion she drew the blade over her shoulder.

Her arm wheeled backwards just as the attacker spun to draw his own saber. With a swish, her blade bit into his wrist.

"Monsieur, kindly abstain from scratching my back", she said calmly.

There was a pause as the man adjusted his dropping jaw. "Not a boy after all. And too comely for it, too... My apologies, Mademoiselle." He sheathed his dagger, offering her the ghost of a bow.

She studied him. He was still rather young, probably in his thirties and not unhandsome. He was tall and well built. His brown hair fell just short of his shoulders in a slightly curled mess. The fine features of his face were partly obscured by a beard he could have done without. Then she noticed it: He wore a dark green cloak, very similar to hers. She sucked in a quiet breath.

"Why do you assail me over a cloak?" she inquired trying to hide the mix of dread and curiosity rising within. "Do you need a spare one?"

He smirked at the irony in her voice. "No. But this particular one belonged to a friend. And he is dead now."

She suppressed a groan. It was just her luck to run into a friend of this particular dead man. "I give you my word, I did not kill him. But without him, I would be dead now", somehow she kept her voice steady.

"Still", her assailant replied equably, "I shall ask you to accompany me. We would not want anyone to charge you with his murder."

It was unclear whether he believed her or not. At least he mistrusted her. Wordlessly, he beckoned for the sword still in her hand.

"I'm sorry, but it's mine", in one practiced swing she sheathed it back over her shoulder. "You have my word. I will not draw it on you again."

"The word of a lady..." he smiled thinly, offering her his arm.

"Perhaps", she narrowed her eyes, reluctant to take it. "And you are...?"

He raised a brow at her question as though it had surprised him. "Aramis of the King's Musketeers, at your service."

Splendid. She rolled her eyes. A tangle with a royal soldier was the last thing she had wanted. She should be ashamed. Should... Instead she just swept her feathered hat off the alley floor. It was too soiled to wear now.

"Pleasure", she muttered, taking the arm that was not merely a polite offer. "And don't fret, I won't run again."

"Not so sure about that. You are a fast one", the musketeer frowned. He got into motion, with a firm grip on her elbow.

Forced to tag along, she sighed in exasperation. "Where are we going?"

"The garrison." He only so much as half turned as he answered. "My comrades there will want to know how our friend died."

He did not seem to believe her tale after all. "Not by my hand", she snapped vehemently. It was the truth.

"So you said", Aramis replied calmly, ushering her back into the main street.

She did not reply. Something else had caught her attention. Very suddenly, her body had started tingling with a sense of alarm. Someone was watching them. She gazed around, yet she saw nothing unusual, only people going about their business. Perhaps her mind was getting tired. Her journey to had been long. And for now it seemed far from over.

Armand Cardinal Richelieu was plagued by another bout of migraines. Yet he would never allow them to stall his work. However, the news he had just received, had considerably worsened his headaches.

"Is that so?" he demanded flatly of Milady de Winter.

His personal assassin and spy leaned against a side table most languidly. "It is. I have seen her arrive in Paris with my own eyes. Do you want me to deal with her?"

"No", he rose from his desk, resisting the urge to rub his aching neck. "This is an official church matter. I will have to receive her in person first."

His creature did not approve. Very briefly her eyes flicked up towards the ceiling. "This seems quite a hassle for a missionary's bastard."

The cardinal sighed with exasperation. The case of this young woman was special, to say the least. "Not if you knew her father. Any action beyond the official will entail a scandal, for now."

"If that is what you wish..." Milady seemed disappointed. Lately, he had not allowed her to dispose of anyone. She was getting restless.

"It is", he replied with an air of finality. "Besides, her father had enough enemies. Perhaps, one of them will cause a welcome accident soon enough."

"I see", she turned away, awaiting his dismissal. "Is there anything else?"

Richelieu reached for a quill, writing out an order for his Red Guard. "I would like to find out the reasons of her visit", he said, more to the wall than to her. Once he had finished writing, he straightened, still not looking around. "You may go."

"Very well, your eminence", from the corner of his eye, he saw her sketch a rather ironic bow.

When milady had left, the cardinal could no longer abstain from massaging his temples. Their conversation had worsened the throbbing pain in his skull. His mood had darkened along with it.

Jean-Marie de Sauveterre had always been a hard, unpleasant man. When he had learned of the missionary's death in China, he had been relieved. The sudden appearance of his illegitimate daughter had destroyed every vestige of this feeling. If she was here to settle her father's scores, crisis was inevitable. And it was his responsibility to prevent it. However, he did not look forward to doing so.

"Have you seen Aramis?" Athos was becoming impatient.

Porthos knew it was getting serious with him the moment he noticed his friend's fist clench and unclench most irritably. "He'll be here soon. He probably ended up in some little adventure again."

"Right", Athos pulled a face, "It doesn't change the fact that we have a mission on our hands."

Porthos sighed. His mate was in an especially unpleasant mood today. He blamed it on yesterday night's wine. "He will come. Grumbling at me won't make it any quicker."

"I could go look for him", D'Artagnan offered helpfully. He had just come back from the stables, leading his saddled horse into the yard. Porthos watched him tie it up next to theirs. They had been tethered there for quite some time already. Aramis really was late today.

Athos shrugged off the young man's offer. "It won't make much of a difference now..." At once, he paused. There were steps in the lane leading up to the garrison gate.

Porthos looked up, squinting into the morning sun. He made out Aramis's hat in the distance. There was someone in his tow: A cloaked figure, shorter than him, slender and with billowing dark hair.

A woman. He laughed out loud. Aramis had always been the ladies' man. But bringing them here was a novelty, even for him.

"Is that...?" D'Artagnan frowned, looking just as baffled.

Athos was much less impressed. "It's not what we need now. He'd better have a very good reason."

"Or a decent story", Porthos added, still heaving a little from laughing so hard. "If this is another of his amorous conquests, I'm dying to hear all about it."

As they drew nearer, he knew this was probably not about love. The young woman in his wake looked neither willing, nor happy to be with him.

Once Aramis stopped in the garrison's yard, she pulled free her arm, glaring wordlessly. She was very beautiful with keen dark eyes and straight black-brown hair flowing a long way over her slender shoulders. Her poise was very erect, conveying a sharp sense of alertness. Paired with her angry gaze, this made her even more attractive.

Porthos felt her eyes dwelling on him, but only for an instant. Then they travelled on to Athos who did not look any happier. It seemed to be a feeling they shared. He acknowledged her presence with a nod. Then he turned on Aramis.

"So, what is this about?" he demanded curtly.

"Well..." Aramis bit back a cheeky grin, "we might not be riding to Le Havre so soon."

Athos rolled his eyes, "Because it will be dusk by the time we arrive?"

"No, because I have found a witness", he nodded at the lady next to him.

There was a pause as Athos took in the new information. His attention shifted towards her. "You saw how Captain Blaise died?"

Obviously irritated, she sighed. "Yes. He died because of me."

At her words, Porthos felt himself tense. His comrades reacted much the same. Their sudden weariness irritated the woman even more.

"And I will say it for a third time: I did not kill him", she growled flatly.

"Yet you took his belongings", Aramis contested, very unhelpfully.

"Not without his express permission", she sighed again. "He died, saving my life."

This was different. Yet it did not seem to sway Athos much. "We would welcome some proof of that, Mademoiselle..."

"Désirée Lévesque de Sauveterre", she curtsied with a whiff of irony.

Porthos watched the smug expression on Aramis's face derail for a moment. He snorted. As so often when he met a beautiful woman, his friend had probably forgotten to ask her name, again.

"And as your friend was so upset about the cloak, he might as well get it back", she added pointedly. Porthos watched her long fingers dance over the buttons, undoing them. The heavy riding cloak slipped from her shoulders. In a flash she tossed it into the air. Her move was so quick, Aramis had to stoop to catch the flying mass of cloth.

And she had better kept it on. She wore barely anything underneath, but a strange costume of a wrapped blue silk blouse and a matched skirt, barely touching her ankles.

"Oh god, you really needed it", Aramis muttered. But by the way he looked up and down her shapely body, he did not seem very sorry she had shed it.

Athos was disturbed by something completely different. "You're armed", he commented dryly. He disapproved.

The slender sword in its golden scabbard strapped crosswise against her back looked more like an expensive ornament. But Athos was right, it was also a weapon. With his mood today, the chances of her keeping it were slim.

"Does that trouble you, Monsieur?" she quipped cockily.

"Not as long as you surrender it now", Athos replied calmly, yet with a very warning undertone.

Porthos made eye contact with D'Artagnan. They drew closer, in case she refused.

Her body tensed and her eyes narrowed. "Am I your prisoner?" she demanded, moving closer to Athos until her face was mere inches from his.

"No, but I do not trust you", he said.

She would not relent. Now was the time to act, to catch her unawares. D'Artagnan dashed forward. He made a grab for her blade. Seconds before his fingers touched the hilt, she crouched down. Her leg flew backwards in a roundhouse kick. It snatched away D'Artagnan's legs. Stunned, he fell backwards. Once he touched the cobbles, Porthos and Aramis drew their blades. Before they were on her, she leapt forward. Her booted foot came down hard against D'Artagnan's chest. She looked ready to crush his windpipe.

"Easy", the tip of Porthos's sword scratched at her back. He was prepared to grab her any second.

Aramis was in front of her, blocking her way with his blade. Athos stood next to him, ready to draw. Their guest got the message.

Slowly she spread her hands. Her back straightened as she stepped away from D'Artagnan. "Just so you know", she said quietly, "I will always be armed, with or without my sword."

With a sigh, she shrugged the scabbard off her shoulders. Elegantly, it glided into her palm.

Athos stretched out his hand for it. But she turned away from him. "Not you. I don't trust you", she snorted scornfully. Her eyes zeroed in on Porthos. They had a startling amber hue he had not noticed before. "You may keep it."

He sheathed his own weapon and took the ornate, golden scabbard from her. He had not seen such a strange longsword before. It was thin and needle-like, with silk tassels dangling from the hilt. In his large hands it looked almost frail.

"Put one scratch on it and you die", she told him in all seriousness.

Porthos roared with laughter. What a threat for someone two heads shorter than him. "I like you, Mademoiselle", he stated, totally ignoring the glare he got for it.

Aramis was amused, too. "Ouch. I say you better don some clothes or you'll die of cold soon, milady."

"I am clothed", she replied, almost sulkily.

"In very expensive underwear", Porthos could not bite back the remark.

She pulled a displeased face at him. "It's an _Aoqun_. In Cathay no one would regard it as underwear."

"Cathay?" Aramis smirked.

"China", she said icily. "I have traveled too far for you to mock me."

Aramis flinched at the cold in her tone. "I apologize. And I might have an idea where to find some French garments for you." He looked at D'Artagnan who was still rubbing his back from the fall.

Porthos felt sorry for the young man. First he was knocked down by a woman and now he was badgered to ask yet another favor of his dear landlady. But the notion was good. At a cloth merchant's house, they were bound to find some proper garb for Mademoiselle de Sauveterre. By now she was shivering, much as she tried to suppress it.

D'Artagnan saw it, too. "We can go ask Madame Bonacieux, unless Mademoiselle decides to hit me again", he conceded.

"She won't", the young lady nodded at him to lead the way. She appeared calmer now. "And I apologize."

"Apology accepted", D'Artagnan waited for Aramis to bring up the rear. His comrade picked up Blaise's cloak which he had dropped during Mademoiselle's little outburst. "Mademoiselle, you should be glad Aramis found you and not a Red Guard. They would have been less forgiving."

Aramis drew a mute finger across his throat to reinforce the young one's words.

She looked perplexed as though these things had not meaning to her at all. "What's a Red Guard?"

On hearing this, Porthos chuckled yet again. She really came from far, far away. He watched the three of them proceed through the garrison gate, towards the Bonacieux residence where D'Artagnan had his lodgings.

As they had disappeared, his gaze found Athos. He had not spoken since the fight. Even now he still looked sullen. If Mademoiselle de Sauveterre went on at this pace, the two of them would be on the best way to enmity.

Porthos sidled closer to his friend. "What do you make of her?"

"Nothing", Athos said. This meant he was yet undecided whether to simply mistrust, or right out loathe her. "You seem stricken with her", he observed gloomily.

Porthos smirked. "You know how I like them: cantankerous and pretty."

"Speak for yourself…" suddenly he held on and listened. A moment later there were hoof beats reverberating off the ground and two mounted soldiers in red coats rode into the yard.

Speak of the devil. Porthos's fingers curled around his pistol. What the heck did the Red Guard want here? He had no doubt it had something to do with their new lady acquaintance…

Athos stepped up to the two Red Guards. "What do you want?" he asked curtly.

"We are in search of Mademoiselle de Sauveterre", one of them responded, "we have orders to take her to the cardinal."

"I would like to see them", Athos demanded with a glare. He definitely did not like their intrusion, either.

The speaker dismounted and produced a sealed parchment. As Athos opened it and read, Porthos peered over his shoulder. Once he had gleaned the signature at the bottom, he had seen enough.

"The cardinal indeed", he muttered, scowling at the two newcomers. "And why would you look for her here?"

The guard who still sat on his horse shrugged disdainfully. "Someone gave us a hint."

Meanwhile Athos had finished reading the whole warrant. He had nothing to say against its soundness, but the look on his face betrayed deep skepticism. "It appears you have just missed her. But she will return shortly. You may wait… outside."

At that, Porthos grinned at the two hesitant guards. "You heard him. We don't like Red Guard horses defecating in our yard."

Grumbling the first guard mounted up again. Once they had walked their horses to the other side of the gate, Porthos turned to frown at his comrade. "This is getting better and better", he muttered, an uneasy feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach.

What could Cardinal Richelieu possibly want from this young woman? This smacked of trouble for her and, thanks to Aramis, for them as well. Aramis sure had to drop the habit of digging up tribulations wherever he went.

_To be continued…._


	2. Cardinal Affairs

_Hello everyone. At long last, here is the second chapter of my little Musketeers adventure. Thank you all for the follows and positive feedback on the first chapter. I'm very glad quite a few of you liked the story so far. I hope you will enjoy reading this new chapter just as much. =) _

_And, a word of warning: In the last passage, there is a very brief exchange of Bible quotes, in Latin. You will find the translations at the very end of the chapter. We will see who wins this little skirmish… ;) Enjoy.  
_

* * *

2. Cardinal Affairs

The moment Aramis and D'Artagnan appeared in the hall, Constance Bonacieux sighed. Whenever they showed up together, trouble was never far away. And this time, the trouble was female.

With a tingling sense of anticipation she eyed the young thing in their wake. With slow, soundless steps she had followed the two men into the house. She was tall and beautiful with pale skin and large brown eyes. Her gaze darted around the room suspiciously, registering every movement and every shadow. She wore the strangest silk costume she had ever seen. It looked as though this one had escaped from some oriental seraglio. When the woman stopped in front of her, Constance saw that she was shivering. It was no wonder.

"What is it now?" she asked D'Artagnan and his friend with an air of curious annoyance.

Her young lodger did not speak a word. He looked disgruntled and ashamed. So Aramis spoke up instead. "We are sorry to trouble you. But Mademoiselle de Sauveterre here requires a set of clothes. Perhaps you could..."

Constance cut him off with a wave of her hand. Her attention returned to the freezing young woman. "I can see that. She can borrow some of mine."

Refusal would have been tantamount to murder by freezing. She nodded at the woman to follow her upstairs. As they passed D'Artagnan, she gave him a shrewd look. "Is she your new love interest then?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but the young lady was quicker. "I have no amorous interest in puppies", she retorted in a low voice full of ice.

"Puppies?" Aramis smirked. "You sure kicked him around like one, Mademoiselle."

D'Artagnan looked ready to punch his comrade.

Their female companion gave him the most provoking of smiles. "It will teach him not to underestimate his opponent", she stated deadpan.

"I surely won't next time", D'Artagnan growled, his expression growing even darker.

"Fine", the woman awarded him one last, quarrelsome glance. Then she turned her face away and strode upstairs with big steps. Constance wondered what had passed between these two. It was definitely not affectionate.

xx

In the upstairs bedroom, Constance openef the chest that held her wardrobe. Her guest took in the new surroundings. The eerie way in which her eyes examined every crevice of the room was unsettling. What on earth had made her so watchful?

"What happened to your belongings?" she inquired carefully, hoping for some answers.

"They might yet turn up", Mademoiselle de Sauveterre replied quietly, gazing out of the window. "Or simply not…" Her stiff poise and reluctant tone sent a clear message: She had no wish to talk.

At the bottom of the chest, Constance found a white linen shift and a finely embroidered corset made of smooth lavender satin. She had outgrown it long ago, yet the younger woman was slender enough for it. It would fit her very well.

When she held out the clothes to her, their looks met for the first time. There was great scepticism in those strange amber eyes when Mademoiselle swept up the shift and held it to her body. Her uncertainty about the garment grew with every moment she kept it in her hands. When her gaze locked onto the corset, it became loathful.

"Would you like some help putting it on?" Constance asked, trying to stay friendly in the face of so much callousness.

Her question sent a jolt through the younger woman's body. Every fibre of her being seemed to tense at once. "No", she snapped harshly.

When she spun at her, Constance saw the glare. It burned with dangerous wrath, conveying a fiery threat. It frightened her greatly. Mortified, Constance stepped backwards. Her hands were shaking. Instantaneously, she feared for her life.

It was then Mademoiselle de Sauveterre realized what she had done. "I'll be fine, thank you", she added, banishing the razor-sharp edge from her voice. Yet her bristling stance remained defensive and full of warning.

"Take your time", Constance replied with all the calmness she could muster. "I will find you a skirt." With that she turned and left the room. She had no wish to clash with this peculiar young lady.

xx

With a sigh, Désirée undid her blouse and unwrapped the skirt. Regret was gnawing at her. She had not wanted to chase off Madame Bonacieux. Yet protecting herself was paramount, even if it meant making new enemies. By accident, her hand brushed against her bare spine. Like a lightning bolt, hot, sharp pain flashed through her body. She gasped for air. In her memories, the pain felt very real. Yet in truth, it had faded long ago. Only the deep marks of abomination remained and nobody was to see them.

The instant her hands stopped shaking, she slipped the shift over her head. In an attemptto focus her thoughts, Désirée beheld the corset. The scanty purple thing looked neither warm, nor comfortable. But she had no better options. It was either this, or showing weakness by freezing openly. Full of reluctance, she took the stiff garment into her hands.

When Madame Bonacieux returned, a burgundy-coloured skirt swept over her arm, Désirée had just finished tying the laces.

"Now that doesn't look bad", she commented as she spread out the long, pleated mass of fabric on the double bed.

"I'm not used to carrying my breasts under my chin", Désirée retorted, eyeing the heavy skirts. Tentatively, she ran a hand over the dark red woollen cloth. As she picked it up, she felt the thick material's weight in her hands. It held the promise of some warmth. Carefully she pulled the skirt over her wide silk slacks, fastening it atop the small sachet that held the remainder of her scant property.

"Thank you kindly, Madame", she said graciously, once the garment sat in its proper place. Madame Bonacieux had not deserved her scorn. "I am very sorry to have inconvenienced you."

"Don't be", the other woman replied. Her fright was gone. Yet she still acted distant and cautious. "You may keep the clothes if you like."

"That would be useful", with a coy half-smile, Désirée swept up her skirts and made for the stairs.

Downstairs, the stunned gapes of the two Musketeers zeroed in on her. She had expected no less of them.

"Now here is a true lady", Aramis stated with a smirk.

She had no need for his flattery. "You have no idea what I am", she replied with a sharp glare. "A lady is certainly not one of these things."

"Perhaps not. But I know one thing about you, Mademoiselle", he was still grinning to himself. "You are freezing even now."

Inwardly, Désirée swore. Had she shivered? Or was he merely satisfying his incurable longing to appear gallant?

The green cloak was still hanging from his arm. In a single sweep, he shook it out and offered it to her.

"I thought this meant soiling your comrade's memory", she observed instead of showing gratitude.

"I don't believe he would mind if you had it", Aramis replied mildly.

Because he was dead, after coming to her aid. The mere thought made Désirée sick. She was not worth another man's life. "We should head back", she said abruptly. "Lest your other friend decides to mistrust me even more."

"Athos?" Aramis chuckled dryly. "It is not all about you, Mademoiselle. You merely caught him in one of his less pleasant moods."

"And then you made the mistake and challenged him", D'Artagnan added, obviously satisfied to pick on her.

Désirée sneered at his puny attempt. "I had a feeling he needed it. Shall we go then?" She pulled the overcoat tighter about her shoulders, bracing for the cool breeze outdoors. As she strode towards the door, she saw Madame Bonacieux coming downstairs.

She stopped to give D'Artagnan's landlady a nod of gratitude. It was not often that strangers offered her kindness without asking a favour in return. Not even the Musketeers had done so freely.

"Farewell, Madame", she said with the tiniest of smiles. Then she pushed through the door, back into the sodden streets of Paris. Wordlessly, her two chaperones followed.

xx

The men were staring at her. They were two, both mounted on large horses, wearing armour and red cloaks. As Désirée drew closer to the garrison gate, one of them jumped off his mount. His heavy boots thudded against the weather-worn cobblestones.

The two Musketeers were flanking her on either side. They had seen the grim-looking strangers as well. A brief wave of watchful apprehension had swept over them. Now they slowed their pace.

What did they want? Confusion gripped her. The sensation lingered, turning into faceless dread. Tension crawled into her legs. The muscles in her thighs clenched, ready to jump at the threat. Suddenly, there was a hand against her arm. Startled, she slapped it away.

"Whoa", Aramis said quietly, right next to her ear. "Those are only red guards. They won't harm you, as long as you behave yourself."

The tall, burly guard closed in on them. Clearly, he had come for her. But why? When his hand slid over his sword hilt, nothing held her anymore. In a jolt, her body dashed forward, primed to fight.

At once she crashed into something solid. Désirée cursed out loud. Aramis had pushed his shoulder into her way, ere she had made a single step towards the opponent. He was closing in quickly now.

The Musketeer looked at her. There was no reproach in his eyes, only a sage air of warning. "Let me handle this, Mademoiselle." Gently, he jostled her towards D'Artagnan. "You better escort her back into the garrison before someone gets hurt."

Désirée felt the young man's firm grip around her right arm. "Come on", he coaxed her. Shaking him off would have been easy. Yet she allowed him to drag her into the garrison yard. For once, the two Musketeers seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

Once safely inside the garrison, she pushed D'Artagnan away. Her worked-up muscles gave off a strong blast of energy. The force of it nearly gusted him over. Yet this time, he stood his ground. Still, he rewarded her with another scowl.

Désirée looked around. Inside the yard, not much had changed. The two other Musketeers were still here. The guards' presence outside had left them alert and wary.

Athos stood stiffly, passing them watchful glances. Then he saw her. He stopped dead, moving her way with big steps. The look on his face was grim.

"Monsieur", she held his glare. "What is going on here?"

Before he got to reply, Aramis strode into the yard, providing the answer. "These gentlemen seem very eager to take Mademoiselle de Sauveterre to the cardinal."

"Yes", Athos said darkly. Nothing more. The contemptuous distrust in his eyes told her the rest.

Aramis turned to her, raising a brow. "Have you any belated confessions to make?"

"None", Désirée frowned.

"Then what would he want of you?" Athos questioned more impatiently.

It was a good question. Désirée bit her lip, thinking hard. She had known Armand Richelieu when she was a little girl. The memories of him were vague and obscure. Yet she recalled a single, cold feeling: the urge to run and hide from him. Of course, today, she knew what business he had had with her father. It had been about her. But back then, she had been too young to understand why. That was all she could tell the men.

"He had dealings with my father, but never with me", her reply was curt and unemotional. "I have no idea what he wants of me now."

"Well, you better find out", Athos observed, his expression still the picture of suspicion.

She sighed. "I should. But there is something I have to give you first." Her hand slipped into the purse beneath her belt. They pulled forth a pendant. It was a small oval locket, hanging from a solid silver chain. "Captain Blaise gave this to me. He wanted his sister to have it after his death. She knew of the arrangement. The captain was hoping she would vouch for me when it was presented to her."

Désirée put it into Athos's palm. "Please keep it safe until I return."

Until she returned... She gazed upon the pair of restless guards outside. A dreadful shudder rippled coldly down her back. It scared her to be left alone with them. The thought of facing the cardinal on her own felt even worse, like a punch to the pit of her stomach.

"And there is something else", she said quietly. "I am worried for these gentlemen's safety. May I request an escort, just so nobody is injured?"

At that, Athos's jaw clenched most unfavourably. He would refuse.

Yet someone else took to her plea. Porthos, who had said nothing since her return, offered Désirée a mischievous grin. "It would be my pleasure, Mademoiselle."

As he moved forward, Athos's hand came up against his side. "We're not..." he began. But then, something in his comrade's resolute expression persuaded him otherwise.

"We're not about to go anywhere else today, is that what you were saying?" Porthos offered evenly.

"More or less", Athos replied in a low voice. He knew full well it would be pure idiocy to leave her alone now. Yet for a moment, his unbroken dislike of her had won.

"Off we go then", Porthos bobbed his head towards his mount. As of before, it was still saddled and tethered outside the stables. "Let's take the horse for a little walk."

Smiling gratefully, Désirée tagged along after the tall, sturdy Musketeer. At least someone here did not loathe her entirely. This one even seemed somewhat taken with her.

"As long as you don't have to walk", she quipped.

"Nah", another easy grin crossed his face as he led the mare towards her. "You're skinny enough."

Désirée rolled her eyes. This was no compliment. "Fine then." Ignoring the proffered hand, she swooped up her skirts. From the corner of her eye, she saw the look of blank disbelief on D'Artagnan's smooth face. The boy looked as horrified as though she was about to unclothe herself.

"Don't worry, puppy, I'm wearing trousers", with ease she swung her, fully clothed, leg over the saddle, allowing the skirt to billow back over it. The young one's hateful stare was priceless. Yet again, she had successfully embarrassed him.

"Always good for a surprise, aren't you Mademoiselle?" With a quiet chuckle, Porthos climbed into the saddle behind her.

The horse took off at a slow walk. In passing, Désirée's gaze travelled over to the three others. She saw mild amusement on Aramis's face.

"I will take back what I said earlier, Mademoiselle. You are clearly not a lady", he called.

"I have told you so, Monsieur", she responded quietly, more to herself.

Up ahead the red guards were waiting, remounted and ready to take her away. Porthos's unexpected company displeased them greatly. Yet they dared not challenge him. He had brought them what they wanted. It had to suffice. With gloomy stares they spurred on ahead.  
Désirée barely suppressed a shiver over the unknown fate closing in on her. She was glad the Musketeers had not abandoned her in the face of it. Even though she would never admit it, she knew she would be doomed without them.

xx

When Captain Treville returned from his duties at the Louvre, he did not fail to notice the two Red Guards riding past him, with Porthos in their tow.

The captain curbed his own horse to see what was happening. He noticed that his Musketeer had company. A young woman was sharing his mount, her long, black hair flying in the wind. Treville squinted to see who it was, only to find he did not know. Usually, he was never uninformed about the goings-on in his battalion. Yet he saw no need to step in. Someone at the garrison would provide an explanation.

As he rode into the yard, he found Athos, Aramis and D'Artagnan engaged in quiet conversation. They seemed a lot more agitated than when he had left them earlier. Treville dismounted. He wondered why they were not in Le Havre, investigating Captain Blaise's death. The explanation had better be good.

"What did the Red Guards want here?" he questioned as he strode over.

The three men turned. Instantly, he noticed the sour look on D'Artagnan's face. Aramis, on the other hand, was smirking nervously.

"They had orders to take Aramis's new lady friend to the cardinal", D'Artagnan observed dryly.

His comrade glared at the young man briefly. There was a nearly imperceptible spark of guilt in his eyes. "She is nobody's lady friend..." he muttered.

The captain had no patience for games today. "Who is she then?" he demanded crisply.

It was Athos who answered. His expression was even gloomier than D'Artagnan's. This meant trouble. "Her name is Désirée de Sauveterre. Apparently she has witnessed Captain Blaise's death."

No. Treville's fist balled. De Sauveterre... he had not heard this name in a long was his daughter doing in Paris? And why now?

The flicker of recognition had shown on his face. Athos picked it up right away. "Do you know her?"

"I knew her father." Her as well, but she had been very young, three, perhaps four years old.

He got into motion towards his state room. The three Musketeers followed.

"She seemed very startled when she learned the cardinal wanted her", Athos went on. It was clear he had neither sympathy, nor trust for her.

Treville narrowed his eyes. "Yet it is no wonder." Mademoiselle de Sauveterre posed a potential threat to Richelieu. Yet she was probably ignorant of the sizeable avalanche of calamity she carried in her wake.

"What dealings does he have with her then?" Aramis inquired. He sounded worried.

The captain could not help but share the sentiment. "She is a Jesuit priest's bastard, born to a noblewoman. Her father was the cardinal's adversary." He had been a shrewd, unrelenting persecutor of sins committed within the church's highest ranks. Then love had broken his neck.

Up on the gallery, Treville stopped. He felt pity for de Sauveterre's daughter. It was wrong she should pay for her father's faults. Knowing the cardinal, he would not go easy on her. Not to speak of her father's countless enemies craving vengeance. One misstep and she would be finished. Yet there was little he could do to help her.

Then, suddenly he realized that, perhaps there was a way. "Have you questioned her, yet?" the captain asked Athos.

He shook his head, "Not yet."

"In that case, Désirée de Sauveterre will be under your protection until the circumstances of Captain Blaise's death are fully resolved." His decision meant going against the cardinal himself. Yet his sense of justice allowed for nothing less. Besides, it was time to repay some old debts.

"Are you worried she might run away?" Athos asked cynically. The orders displeased him, as did everything else about this young woman.

"No. But she might not live long enough to testify." For now, that was all they had to know. It was enough to cut off any further arguments.

Without another word, Treville stepped into his room. Once the door had slammed shut behind him, he tossed down his hat. A part of him wanted to curse. These days, Paris was already teeming with feuds and bloodshed. The sudden appearance of Mademoiselle de Sauveterre only promised to make matters worse. Much worse…

xx

Old ghosts died hard. And Désirée de Sauveterre carried the ghost of her father with her. Yet she was one thing her father had not been: She was afraid of him.

The cardinal watched the young woman pace his study. She moved with sylphlike grace, her long, dark hair floating around her like a veil as she moved about with short, measured steps. Clearly, she was aiming for an air of impenetrability. Yet her pallor and the dull gleam of insecurity in her eyes spoke an entirely different language. Deep down, she was still the little girl who desired nothing more than to hide from him. Yet these times were gone forever. Now, after two decades out of his reach, she would finally face him.

It took a long moment before she deigned to notice him. "Your eminence wanted to see me?" she curtsied stiffly, reluctantly. The contempt in her voice was hard to miss.

"Obviously", Richelieu made no effort to rise from his desk. "Or did you think your return to France would slip my notice?"

She raised her eyes at him in a mute challenge. "I do not see why it concerns you. You are a man of state now. A Jesuit's bastard is hardly your business anymore", her tone was dangerously sharp, much sharper than was good for her.

"But you are, now more than ever", he allowed, relishing her momentary confusion.

Her eyes narrowed at him. "My father was yours to worry about", she said finally, sounding gravely upset.

"Your father and his abominations", the cardinal gave her a contemptuous glare. In essence, this young woman was nothing else; nothing but a sacrilegious bastard and an unspeakable abomination.

Yet Mademoiselle de Sauveterre seemed to care little and less for all this. "Is that what you think of me then?" she questioned, belligerence written all over her precious face.

"It is what the church thinks of you." His own opinion was a different matter. To him, she was a nuisance not easily dealt with. The circumstances of her birth were merely adding oil to that particular fire.

The young woman gritted her teeth. "The church would love to lock me up in a convent for the rest of forever." She tried to appear nonplussed, yet Richelieu did not fail to notice her struggle for composure.

"That, Mademoiselle, puts it very mildly", he sneered, pausing to study her yet again. With every passing minute in his presence, her unease grew. And he enjoyed seeing her, already porous, façade crumble away, bit by bit. "What is your business in France?" he inquired shrewdly.

"That is none of your concern... eminence", she retorted. Suddenly her gaze honed in on him. There was no more fear in it, only arrogant displeasure. Richelieu wondered what had sparked this unforeseen change of mood.

She had no right to such volatile demeanour in front of him. Sick of her antics, the cardinal stood, striding towards her. "Every step you take on this earth is my concern and you know it", he responded with a glacial air of warning.

As he circled around her, Mademoiselle de Sauveterre trembled visibly. "That may be your stance", she breathed, "Yet I am no baseborn bastard whose life is at your mercy."

Richelieu stopped pacing. He had misjudged her. Désirée de Sauveterre was her father's daughter after all. At once she appeared no less direct, callous and unforgiving as the late Monseigneur had been. And her sire had made sure she knew of her mother's high birth, instilling a misplaced sense of pride in his offspring.

Yet everything else she knew of her alleged mother was a set of carefully crafted lies. The cardinal had made sure of it, since the day she had been born. Should the young woman ever find out, just how noble her lineage was, widespread scandal was inevitable. The thought of that alone made his headaches flare up again, worse than before.

But, unbeknownst, she was right about one thing: She had powerful protectors in France all the same. The Jesuit friars were among them, much as they despised her. However, they had never ceased to cover for de Sauveterre, even after breaking his vows for fornication. And, of course, his daughter's presence in France was no secret to them. Should anything happen to her, they would find a way to make him pay. The priestly brotherhood had always been skilled at wreaking havoc to his well-constructed plans.

"However, no mercy will save you, should I accuse you of plotting treason", Richelieu observed irritably. His patience was wearing thin, like a thread ready to snap, "So, why are you here?"

Her breath came in slow, shallow gasps. At last, he had hit a nerve, terrifying her back into humility.

"I have nowhere else to go", she admitted reluctantly, "both my parents are dead and I am in search of a home."

"A home", the cardinal sneered. "How moving…"

It was hard to believe a single word of this. He had not failed to notice her Musketeer companion. She was up to a lot more. The fact that she seemed involved with the king's soldiers, only a day after her arrival, was tell-tale of it. Yet, questioning her any further made little sense. His spy would enlighten him about Mademoiselle's true motives soon enough.

"Where else do you expect me to go, eminence?" she retorted, bold provocation written all over her face yet again.

"A place devoid of your father's enemies", Richelieu said pointedly, "you can be assured there will be countless attempts on your life."

The young woman stared at him in silent defiance. "Surely you will have nothing to do with them..." she muttered after a long moment of petulant glaring.

"Naturally not." For now, this was the truth. Praying for an unfortunate incident was hardly an active involvement. The cardinal moved back towards his desk. "However, should your actions displease me, or the church, matters will change: One false step and the convent will be the punishment you had hoped for."

"Is that so?" the tremulous shadow of a smile crossed her face. "The church should be more concerned about its own sins."

Richelieu halted in mid-step. Twenty years ago, in the face of exile, her father had said the exact same thing. What knowledge had he passed on to his daughter? With the right things in her hand, she was even more dangerous than he had first thought. The cardinal kept his features stony and aloof, yet on the inside, concern was raging. "You are a living sin, Mademoiselle", he stated flatly.

His words did not perturb the young woman in the slightest. "_Qui sine peccato est, primus lapidem mittat_", she quoted, contempt lighting up her eyes.

He that is without sin... Richelieu smirked. Her choice of Scripture verses had given her away. Surely, she knew too much. But would she use it against him? Under all this pretence of headstrong bravery, she seemed too cowed to try.

For now, the cardinal felt safe, safe enough to put this wayward daughter into her rightful place: "_In filia non avertente se, firma custodiam_."

At once, Mademoiselle de Sauveterre paled. It gave her light skin a ghostly hue. She had understood his message: He would watch her every move. Should she so much as twitch into the wrong direction, she would pay dearly.

"I think your eminence has wasted enough of his precious time cautioning me", her cold words were a feeble try to cover up her mortification. "If that is all, I would like to take my leave now."

"Of course", the cardinal waved her away. She had indeed taken enough of his time, trying his patience to the extreme. Yet Richelieu doubted he had seen the last of Désirée de Sauveterre.

As graciously as her tremulous legs allowed, she bowed. Her relief was obvious. Slowly she made for the door, her feet barely making a sound against the tiled floor.

But then, only inches away from the door, she spun back around. "I have one more question", she announced.

Somewhat unsurprised, the cardinal half-closed his eyes. "And you presume I will answer it?"

"You will", her tone was no less self-assured than her father's. "Why did you exile my father when you had every right to pursue his excommunication?"

So he would answer, "Because of you, Mademoiselle." It was all he had to say.

"I do not think I can believe that..." Perplexed she eyed him. After a short moment, she spun around and left, without another word.

His vague reply had not satisfied her. Yet it had been truthful. He had offered Monseigneur de Sauveterre a deal, allowing him to join the Jesuit mission to China. In return, he had forced him never to reveal the true identity of the girl's mother. So far, his scheme had succeeded. And thus, it had to continue.

The cardinal sat down heavily at his desk, rubbing his aching neck. Under no circumstances was the young woman to know that her mother was not as dead as she thought.

* * *

Translations:  
_  
Qui sine peccato est [vestrum], primus [in illam] lapidem mittat._ – "He that is without sin [among you], let him first cast a stone [at her]" (John 8:7).  
_  
In filia non avertente se, firma custodiam, […]_ – "On a daughter that turneth not away herself, set a strict watch: […]" (Ecclesiasticus 26:13).

Verses taken from the Latin Vulgate Bible (c. 380 AD).


	3. Fighting Chance

_Hello everyone. Sorry to have kept you waiting so long for this next chapter. With the first season ending and my thesis pressing just a little to get done there was a little lag in writing on my end. But here is the continuation of the adventure. I hope you will enjoy it. And, be assured, more action and excitement are headed your way... :-) _

* * *

3. Fighting Chance

The cardinal was taking his precious time. And Porthos was stuck outside, waiting. To pass the seemingly endless stretch of time, he withdrew the strange sword from his saddle bag. The scabbard's ornate goldwork glittered in the midday sun, as he balanced the weapon in his left hand. The elegant blade was too short to be a rapier, and too slender for a proper longsword. And, no matter what it was, it felt too light in his palm.

Suddenly, Porthos heard quiet footsteps behind him. He stopped admiring the sword. His back straightened, but he did not have to turn to know who had just snuck up on him.

"Playing with my toys?" Mademoiselle de Sauveterre inquired. She sounded tense and exhausted.

Porthos turned to face her. "Only admiring them", he allowed mildly.

As his eyes travelled over her, he noticed just how weary she looked. On the way here, she had barely spoken, sitting the horse as stiffly as a pillar of stone. The dread that had made her so was wearing off now. And it left her shaken.

"You're a bit on the pale side, Mademoiselle", he observed, trying to hide his concern.

A glare flitted across her features. Clearly she did not like to be found out. "And you..."

Eyebrows raised, she studied him. Porthos had a feeling she might regret her next comment. "You douse yourself with cinnamon every morning, don't you?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. This was not what he had expected. A part of him wanted to laugh out loud. Yet the remorseless cynicism in her voice had stung. It earned her an insulted scowl.

Suddenly, the pallor made way for a rosy flush. "Oh god", ashamed of her words, Mademoiselle averted her gaze. "Forgive me", she muttered regretfully. "When I am worked up, I..."

"Cross everyone around you?" Porthos suggested. The distraught look on her face had softened his tone.

She sighed, "Sometimes." Apologetically, her eyes rose towards him again. "Things get a little out of hand."

No doubt, they had done that with Richelieu as well. No wonder she looked so shaken. Provoking him was never a good idea. "More than a little it seems", he observed, smiling again at last. She definitely needed the encouragement. "What did the cardinal want of you then?"

"In short?" Somewhat more at ease, Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. "Why the hell are you in France? Better watch your back, or else..." She faltered. Another shadow crossed her face.

As it lingered, Porthos made a step towards the young woman. This was hard for her. Fully expecting a slap, he touched her hand. It was ice cold. But she did not push him away.

"Did he threaten you?" he questioned. His eyes narrowed at the idea. It felt wrong, wrong enough to stir his anger.

She smiled wryly. "With Armand you never know. He's such a..." Her hand clenched around his as she let off a stream of unintelligible curses.

They were probably Chinese. Curiously, Porthos raised a brow.

"Some things better stay unsaid in French", she murmured, looking around watchfully.

Porthos understood that. Yet there was a lot more, still eluding his understanding. "But why is he so interested in you?" he asked.

"I might as well tell you", she replied quietly, her hand still laced around his. "My father was an ordained priest who whelped me on a highborn lady. This makes me a sacrilegious illegitimate."

A cleric's bastard... At once, things made a little more sense. "What of your mother then?" he blurted out.

Wordlessly, Mademoiselle de Sauveterre studied him. Pain dulled her fiery eyes. It made Porthos regret his question. He had been prying too deeply. But then, she answered it:

"Suicide... from shame", her voice was calm and unemotional. Obviously, she had never really known her. Much like him...

Unexpectedly, she gripped his arm. With insecure steps, she moved closer until their bodies were a hair's breadth from touching. At once, Porthos realized he still held her sword in his left hand. Quickly he chucked it behind his back. With a silent hiss it slipped into the saddle bag.

"Nice try, Mademoiselle", a smirk crept onto his face. But he had misjudged her intentions. None of this was about the weapon. She drew even closer. Her finger touched his lips, silencing him.

"Désirée", she whispered. In one fluid motion she was on her tiptoes. Her cheek brushed against his a she bent over, smelling at the crook of his neck. "What a pity. No cinnamon indeed."

This time, Porthos chuckled. This woman had no shame. And he liked it. Suddenly, she stiffened. Alerted by the sudden change, he strained his ears. Something was going on behind him. Several horses had just come to a halt.

Porthos's fingers tightened around his sword hilt. But then, he felt Désirée relax. There was no threat. Yet he knew who else it might be...

"We can't leave you two alone for two minutes, can we?" Aramis commented from behind him.

With a broad grin, Porthos turned to face his three comrades. "Says the right one", he retorted, unsure why they were here. Clearly, something new had happened in their absence.

Désirée sensed it, too. She eyed them all shrewdly. "Have you missed me that much?"

"Hardly", D'Artagnan quipped. He had not gotten over her previous insults yet; that much was obvious.

Athos appeared no less disgruntled about being here. "For the time being, Mademoiselle, you are under our protection", he announced, struggling to keep the reluctant glower from his tight-set mien. "Captain's orders."

This meant trouble. Suddenly concerned, Porthos frowned. Whenever Treville issued such an order, the reasons were never trivial. He had no idea what it could possibly be this time. Was there something else she had not told them?

"That serious, is it?" Désirée's tone was ironical, yet her expression mirrored his own concern. She paused to notice the spare mount in D'Artagnan's tow. "Matters must be grave if you bring along a horse."

Slowly she approached the black mare. As D'Artagnan moved to untie it, she waved him away, before he had so much as dismounted. "No need to acquaint me with your pretty cousin. I think we shall get along splendidly."

Porthos winced. He wondered what D'Artagnan had ever done to incite her temper. Aramis, however, found the needless insult very amusing.

"Don't they ride camels in China?" he inquired, brows raised curiously.

"The emperor rides one." Désirée shrugged and climbed into the saddle, as effortlessly as before. "Do I look like the empress of China to you?"

"That would be too much of a compliment", D'Artagnan chimed in, a cocky little smirk on his lips.

As he mounted up, Porthos watched the scene closely. How would she react? A sizeable part of him wanted to hold his breath.

But Désirée merely grinned, almost proudly. "You have finally insulted me. Looks as though you are learning..."

"I have been able to talk before you showed up, Mademoiselle", the young man glared at her. He had not expected this reaction; neither had Porthos. She was such a volatile thing.

"I believe we have done enough talking for now", Athos stated. He looked deeply exasperated and very eager to leave. Before anyone got a chance to argue, he turned his horse and spurred it into motion.

Today was definitely not his day. Being stopped from investigating the death of a long-standing comrade, only to protect someone he mistrusted did not sit well with him. But orders were orders...

Porthos brought his horse alongside Désirée's. She seemed rather unhappy about heading back to the garrison once more. When her eyes met his, he saw confusion and worry burning in them. The sentiment had been no different when the cardinal had summoned her.

"Looks like I'm incredibly popular today", she observed with a bittersweet grin. "First Richelieu wants me, and now your captain."

He smirked at her cynicism. "You must be doing something right, then."

Désirée rolled her eyes. "Otherwise I would not be here with four reluctant chaperones."

"Not reluctant at all, Mademoiselle", Aramis reined in on her other side. He was smiling, but Porthos noticed the worry simmering beneath the surface. Definitely, Treville had told them new things in his absence. Whatever they were, they bode ill.

Did Désirée know any of it? Her momentary good spirits seemed more than a little forced. "I was not talking about you two, obviously", she replied with a nod at Athos and D'Artagnan, riding in front of them.

"Obviously." Worried or not, Aramis did not abstain from offering Porthos a very meaningful wink.

Sharp as she was, Désirée did not fail to notice. "Don't worry. I like you both equally well."

"Comforting to know..." Porthos began. Then he looked at her. Suddenly, the easy grin froze on his lips. In a flash, Désirée's whole demeanour had changed. Stock-still she sat the horse, as though she had turned to ice. Her eyes darted around in a panicked flurry of motion. The rest of her features were hard and stone-cold. Something was not right.

"Désirée?" he touched her arm.

After an instant, she woke from her trance, shaken with fright. "Trouble", she breathed.

Suddenly, they heard hoof beats, approaching fast.

Aramis was the first to react. He seized her horse's bridle and called out a warning to Athos. Not a moment too late. Mere seconds later, the attackers were upon them.

xx

The current of sounds around her was broken, ripped apart by the roar of hooves against stone. Scraps of black cloaks and flashes of bare steel darted through her field of vision. Beneath her, the horse balked at the uproar. She could not check it. Fear petrified her. The harder she tried to focus, the tighter became its stony grip. She wanted to scream. No sound came. Only that of someone else's voice. Aramis...

"Move!" The shout rang like an explosion in her mind. It blew away all restraints. Her head snapped around to face him. That moment, his pistol flashed up in his hand. He fired a shot at a passing assailant. The bullet buried itself in the stranger's neck, dropping him dead from the saddle.

Almost calmly, Aramis's attention returned to her. "Get out of here. We've got your back."

She nodded. Stunned she realized he had been holding her horse, steadying it in the middle of fighting. Now he let go.

Fiercely, the animal gave heed to its panic. Désirée struggled for control. Her thighs dug into its flanks, hard. The horse skittered sideways. Then, with a sharp jolt, the menacing gallop slowed to a fast canter.

Désirée's mind focussed on the fight. The clash of blades washed over her like a tide. And there were screams, screams of fallen men... The Musketeers were amidst the turmoil, outnumbered. Masked attackers in black cloaks were everywhere. She counted five still alive. More were underfoot, dead or wounded. The enemy was losing.

Yet, blank horror clawed at Désirée. The attack was meant for her. A battalion of thugs to kill a single woman... Full of fright, she urged the horse forward. Right ahead, the battle cleared. She was almost free.

Suddenly, the hairs on her neck stood up. Someone was approaching. Tensely, Désirée whirled around in the saddle. A rider had broken from the fight. He was coming for her, fast. Too fast. Within a split second, his horse crashed into hers. Amidst the violent clash of bodies, he grabbed her. Forcefully, the attacker's iron fingers dug into her arm. Helplessly, Désirée twisted in his grip. She was trapped, with no way out. He was too strong, and she had no weapons. No weapons but one...

Désirée forced her mind to focus. It was her only chance. Around her, time froze. Her senses sharpened. Underneath her, she felt the warmth of the horse's body. It was dazed, unmoving. The enemy dragged at her with brutal force. Any second now, he would pull her to the ground.

Cold fear hit with a fiery blow, rousing her instincts. Unthinking, she kicked her horse. Screaming, it reared. As it began to rise, Désirée wrenched her feet from the stirrups. Summoning all her strength, she pushed off with her legs. If he wanted to go down, they would. Head-first she soared backwards. For the blink of an eye, she felt completely weightless. Then her body gave in to gravity.

With a sudden jolt, her shoulders dipped down. Reflex kicked up her feet. Before she lost control, her calf lashed out sideways. It hit the stunned brute square across the face. Numbed with shock, he tumbled away from her.

At once, Désirée sensed the ground approach. Too soon... The impact would break her back. Desperate not to kill herself, she threw her body sideways. Just then, her side crashed into the hard ground.

Unprepared, her shoulder struck the cobbles. Hot agony screamed through her arm. Somehow, she rolled onto her stomach, preventing a more serious injury.

It still hurt. For a long moment, she lay motionlessly. Her breath rattled in shallow, laboured gasps. Agonized, she waited for the hot throb in her arm to subside. The ground around her shook as the attacker's horse ran off, following her own. Désirée breathed a sigh of relief. Just now, things could have gone calamitously wrong. She had been incredibly lucky...

Suddenly, there was a shot, almost right behind her. Startled she spun from idleness, only to find Athos cantering towards her. He had just killed her assailant. Relief washed over her. At last, Désirée managed to sit up.

She blinked away the sparks of light dancing in front of her eyes. Her attention narrowed to the ongoing fight. By now, most of the black-cloaked attackers lay strewn on the ground. This very moment, another enemy fell, struck by D'Artagnan's blade. Around the fresh casualties, riderless horses roamed, seemingly oblivious to the dying battle. Yet the struggle was not over. Three men remained standing, held in check by Porthos and Aramis. Clearly, the Musketeers were winning.

Still, a tingling sense of alarm kept Désirée on her guard. She listened. The street was deserted. All the noises were gone. There was nothing more to fear. But why was her heart still racing? Something felt wrong, as though there was a phantom lurking in the shadows.

Momentarily, Athos's horse blacked out the sun. His arm reached down, interrupting her thoughts. Without hesitation, she grabbed it. As he pulled her up, Désirée looked backwards. A bright, white flash caught her eye. Sunlight reflected off a steel barrel. "Look out!" she screamed. One of the fallen had aimed a pistol at them.

Athos reacted immediately. "Hold on", he snapped, spurring the horse into a gallop, the second her fingers closed around his shoulders. A fierce gust of wind ripped at her skirt as he put distance between them and the shooter. It was all he could do. Suddenly, she heard the whipping sound of a lead ball ricocheting off a limestone wall. They had made it, barely escaping a disaster.

xx

What had begun with a sole Musketeer, had now become a whole guard detail. Richelieu did not like it. As so often, the king's soldiers were foiling his hopes, encroaching on his affairs like crows preying on a cadaver. But why this time…?

The cardinal stood. With slow steps, he paced the length of his spacious study. There was only one explanation: their captain. Lost in thought, he found his finger rubbing the bridge of his nose. Quickly, he withdrew it again.

Of course, Treville had been involved with the girl's father. Yet, to this day, the nature of their business had eluded even him, the best-informed man in France. Of course, twenty years ago, his resources had not been as extensive as they were now. After the Jesuit's forced journey to China, he had let the matter slip. Now, this lapse demanded its galling tribute. The Musketeer captain was one step ahead of him. Very blatantly, he was protecting this nuisance of a woman from harm. Richelieu was certain; there was a sound reason behind his actions. If he found out, he could destroy both of them...

Suddenly, the door behind his desk cracked open. With a quiet rustle of skirts, Milady slipped into the room. She had news for him. The cardinal stopped walking at once. Yet he was not bothered to look at her. "What have you found out?" he queried curtly.

There was no immediate reply. His wilful spy was too busy getting comfortable. Richelieu spun around, the throb behind his eyes deepening his glare. Unperturbed, she reclined against his desk. If she had the confidence to act this provocatively, success had most likely emboldened her.

"They have been attacked." With an air of contentment, she finally tossed this morsel of intelligence at him.

It was good news indeed. "Was Mademoiselle de Sauveterre harmed?" he probed, trying hard not to sound hopeful.

"No", Milady plucked a handful of grapes from the bowl beside her. "But it was a hopeless plan, nine men attacking a band of Musketeers in the middle of the main street."

Indeed, it sounded as stupid as it was reckless. He wondered who was desperate and capable enough to dare such a strike. At some point, they might come in useful... He should find out who was behind it. "I trust none of them saw the end of this unfortunate endeavour?"

"Unlikely", Milady shrugged. Elegantly, she slid off the desk. From the folds of her skirts, she pulled forth a small, sealed piece of parchment. "And, I believe, this should interest you more." Tucked between two fingers, she held it out to him.

Shrewdly, the cardinal beheld the document. On the outside, it looked weather-worn and stained. Finally intrigued, he snatched it up, carefully unpicking the seal.

It was a letter, of a much more recent date than the outside had let on. As he scanned the first few lines, a smirk broke on his face. Correspondence from China, detailing Mademoiselle de Sauveterre's departure. She had not taken her leave as voluntary as she had claimed. The missionary who had written the letter, was rather explicit about this detail. Richelieu was surprised such a message existed at all. He had over-estimated the Jesuits' integrity with their exiled brother. As far as the congregation was concerned, de Sauveterre's daughter had fallen from grace.

Richelieu paused, relishing this new information. He considered passing it on to the original recipient. This way, he would rob the young woman of the Jesuits' guardianship, a vital element to her survival. "What of the messenger?" he inquired.

"He ... slipped", Milady answered with an enigmatic smile. As expected, she had killed him to still her bloodthirsty nature. It did not matter though. He could always send a Red Guard, claiming it had indeed been an accident.

With a fleeting nod, he went on reading. The story kept on getting better. The missionary described a crime, most heinous to the Chinese authorities. Only by the brotherhood's intervention had Mademoiselle escaped a death sentence. There was no further description of her deed. Yet its existence was more than enough. With rising spirits, Richelieu refolded the parchment.

Despite all his warnings, the little fiend had kept the truth from him. The letter had given him the means to destroy her for it, several times over if he had to. But now was not the time. He felt there was more to it, a bigger calamity still in the making. Sooner or later, she would incriminate herself. Only this time, she would not escape with her life. Not on his watch...

"Don't let Mademoiselle de Sauveterre out of your sight", he ordered Milady. "Meanwhile I shall see to the letter. It is far too interesting to keep it from the Jesuits."

"Very well." His creature had expected more. Barely did she hide the disappointed look on her face. But his last words had been all the gratitude she would receive. Her job was not done, yet.

"And you will not touch her", he added sharply. The pleasure of finishing Désirée de Sauveterre was to be all his.

xx

Something had happened. Treville knew the moment Athos sped into the garrison yard. He was on his own, escorting Mademoiselle de Sauveterre to safety. From the gallery, the captain watched them dismount. The slowness of the young woman's movements betrayed how shaken she was. Yet, she was quick to push away Athos's arm, once her feet touched the ground.

Moving forward, she raised her head to the gallery. Her amber eyes met the captain's gaze. They were like two fiery gems, radiating an aura of slow-burning petulance. He remembered that look well. Yet now, twenty years later, it lacked any trace of childlike softness. The little girl was no more.

Graciously, Treville nodded, showing her to come upstairs. He knew her irritation was not meant for him. Instead, Athos got the lion's share of it. As they approached the stairs, her face was contorted with displeasure. It had been something he said.

The captain had not heard Athos's words, but her response reached his ears with stark clarity:

"All you ever do is reproach me", she stated harshly.

As so often, Athos stayed perfectly calm in the face of her heated temper. "I did not reproach you, Mademoiselle. I was merely pointing out that you could have died, wagering with your life as you did."

"I am well aware of that", briskly, Mademoiselle de Sauveterre averted her face from him. "And you should know I was controlling the stakes."  
Despite her obvious exhaustion, she dashed up the steps, eager to put some space between them.

Once atop the gallery, her worked-up expression softened a little. "Captain", she awarded Treville a courteous nod.

For a brief instant, a vague flicker of recognition clouded her features. Had he imagined it? She had been so very young on their last meeting. The captain wondered whether she remembered him at all.

Athos joined them. He still seemed composed. Yet Treville did not fail to catch his unvoiced exasperation. "What happened?" he questioned, eyeing both of them closely.

Before she could say anything, Athos cut her short with a single sharp glance. "An attack; eight men rode us down on the main street..."

"Nine." There was a sudden mischievous sparkle in Mademoiselle's eyes. Her mouth twitched as she bit back a cocky grin. "I see counting isn't your strong suit. Thanks for the rescue, though."

It was then the captain noticed the dark streak of dirt coating her sleeve. Before he could ask about it, she pulled it closer to her body, out of his sight. "It is nothing. I only took a little tumble."

Behind her back, Athos raised his brows, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. Clearly, this had just been a sizeable understatement. Instantaneously, the concern for the young woman's safety pushed itself to the forefront of Treville's mind. Yet he kept it to himself.

"Please", he showed her into his office. "We have to talk."

Wordlessly, she went ahead. Athos followed on her foot. It seemed as though he did not even trust her to walk on her own. Whatever had occurred during the attack was making him extremely watchful.

The threat to Désirée de Sauveterre's life was very real. They all knew it. Yet none of them could afford to show concern. Treville was no stranger to her volatile temper. Carefully, he arranged his face. The last thing he wanted now was to fight the young woman.

xx


End file.
